The wind shifted, producing a whiff of fish from the walls of the old cannery. The berry ice inexplicably tasted like peach. Somewhere in the distance, someone was blaring a Salt-N-Pepa–Led Zeppelin mash-up. These post-Soviet states were so gloriously ass backward.

She licked her berry-peach ice and waited. Refat Setyeyiva, come on with your bad self and your fucked-up name.

The door creaked open.

At first he didn’t see her. His scruffy face stayed bent down as he fumbled a file into a soft briefcase. He got two steps into the alley when she cleared her throat.

A soft, feminine melody.

He glanced over.

That stopped him.

He wasn’t bearlike as so many former throwers were. His massive body was still shaped the right way, mass up top, tapered through the waist. She wondered if he’d given up the steroids entirely or if they made him look too damn good to quit.

He was staring at her, no doubt wondering some things of his own.

She was a mirage. He seemed afraid to blink lest she disappear.

She parted her mouth. Let the ice pop inch further past her orange lips. Let her tongue squirm into sight on the side.

He didn’t notice the Škoda Fabia Combi rev to life behind him.

How could he?

His gaze stayed locked on her even as the car bore down, headlights dimmed. She tilted toward him and plucked the soft briefcase from his hand. At the last moment, Setyeyiva seemed to come back into his body. He whirled around as the car smashed into him, the brakes already chirping.

He flew. Landed. A bark of air left his lungs on impact.

He stared at her with uncomprehending eyes.

She licked up the Popsicle’s shaft. Might as well give him a little morphine on his way out.

Jaggers rolled forward, crushing the big man. The car bounced up and down and up and down and then was in front of him, perfectly positioned to load the body. Jaggers popped the trunk and climbed out.

Candy dropped the ice pop and walked over, the briefcase swinging at her side.

She smirked at that whisper that had been haunting her of late. Damaged goods her ass.

The Škoda Fabia Combi had few advantages, but two of them happened to be generous hatch space and a loading sill a mere 611 millimeters off the ground. The roomy hatch was lined with plastic tarp, taped expertly around the sides.

Candy took the ankles, Jaggers the armpits. They huffed and they puffed and they swung the man in. The car had no sooner creaked down on its chassis than they heard a clacking of high heels behind them.